


Code Rouge

by Vexy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Glee, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beta Wanted, F/M, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Super Soldier Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:13:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexy/pseuds/Vexy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm seeking a beta (or betas) for a long-form (guess is 50K to 80K) multi-chapter piece. I have a full plan. </p><p>I've made a lot of anonymous comments over the years, but I finally got the nerve to log in and work on something. This is my first fic, so please be gentle. </p><p> </p><p>Anthea and Sander (who is not yet Q, but shall be) are twins, and their bestie is Eve (who is not yet Moneypenny, but shall be).</p><p>Steve was found by Tony, and Steve's bestie is Darcy.</p><p> </p><p>Multi-modified universes, Craig Bond universe primary. If I had to state an over-arching plot summary it would be, “007 does not know, and it may be that none of the 007s have ever known, that James Bond is a cover.” But, obviously, there’s more to it than that, including serums, lots of serums.</p><p>Chapter one here is notes about the universe, and the first two chapters of the work follow that. </p><p>I'll expect to post the finished work separately from this post. </p><p>All mistakes are my own. I am American, so UK chapters may benefit from a good Brit-picking.</p><p>Obviously, I own nothing. I’m just a fan.</p><p>If you want to help, please let me know. I’d really appreciate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Universe Notes

What’s below isn’t required for a read, but, I know that some readers enjoy knowing that particulars about an AU / MU prior to reading.

  
Primary considerations for this universe come from the Bond films. Many dates and characters are extrapolated from the films. Some editing is required to accommodate contradictions among films. I decided the most recent Q (Sander is not yet Q in the posted chapters) was merely 28 when he was promoted to the office.

 

Secondary considerations come from the MCU, with much editing. Some key points for that:

— all Serums exist —Steve’s, Bruce’s, Bucky’s and more— and all were created by SHIELD or HYDRA

— no aliens or other realms of any kind (including Thor and Loki both of whom I love)

— no alien artifacts either

— no evolved mutants (I say “evolved” because Steve et al are mutants of a kind)

— no Avengers

— no Iron Man — the Tony Stark here is merely a genius, billionaire, philanthropist playboy entrepreneur who in his free time is attempting to right the wrongs he perceives of his father’s legacy

— it is a team of Tony’s that finds Steve in the ice

— Steve is not trying to be Captain America, he’s just a guy trying to find his way in a new world

— HYDRA is a split from SCEPTRE, neither world dominating, but both vexing

— SHIELD runs under the auspices of the UN, and the World Security Council is basically a UN committee, and like all governmental entities, SHIELD may do bad with good intentions

— recent dates from the MCU have been fudged a bit to accommodate incidents in the Bond timeline 

  
  


Additional considerations for this universe come from

— the BBC Sherlock universe, however, only Anthea and Mycroft are met

— the Glee universe, although only Kurt is met

— the Bourne universe, but only in the programs used to create Jason Bourne and his ilk, none of the characters are met 


	2. Code Rouge Conclave

Sunday, the 3rd of March, 2012  
  
  
    From: "Sander"  
    To: "Thea", "Eve"  
    Subject: CRC  
    Date: 2012-09-23 T 15:59:41 +00:00  
      
    Returning Wednesday.  
    No excuses: you are now booked Friday 19:00 through Sunday 15:00 for a long over-due CRC at TOH.  
  
  
    From: "Anthea"  
    To: "Agesander", "Eve"  
    Subject: Re: CRC  
    Date: 2012-09-23 T 16:23:48 +00:00  
      
    Thank fuck my away plans were just cancelled. I’d been considering staying the old house anyway as my flat’s being painted Friday and I cannot abide the fumes. Thought you’d still be away or I’d have asked. I’d have had the kitchen stocked. Send me a list if you want anything non-standard.    
  
    Evie, fetch our standard take-away from Mumbai en route?  
  
  
    From: "Eve"  
    To: "Anthea", "Sander"  
    Subject: Re: Re: CRC  
    Date: 2012-09-23 T 17:15:32 +00:00  
      
    Yes to all. Quite looking forward to it.  
  
  
A moment after Sander set foot on his own stoop early Wednesday afternoon, his neighbour opened her door of the other side of the duplex. His barley breathed out, “Oh, hi, Mrs Bakker,” was interrupted by her, “Thea told me you’d be returning today. I’d begun to worry about you, I’m sure they’re working you too hard. Are you eating properly? Never you mind, love, I’ve a taste for Broodje kroket sarnies. Thea stocked me up, the dear. Come by the back at half seven I’ll have dinner put together for you.” Mrs Bakker pressed her palm against Sander’s cheek and fixed him with a fond smile just as he turned the lock. He’d not even responded when she disappeared into her flat.  
  
Thursday and Friday were a blur for Sander; as T Group Lead of MI6’s Q Section, Sander, like his colleagues, Group Leads of R and S, had little opportunity for boredom.  
  
The highlights were:  
— the acquisition of two pairs of out-seasoned but favourite Band of Outsiders trousers at nearly half discount online  
— approval for promotions of two of his staff to Senior Analyst, and approval for hiring replacement Junior Analysts for the open positions  
— being able to report to M and the Section heads on 85% completion of field office moves and technology upgrades during a Heads meeting, to kudos from Tanner  
— Mrs Bakker’s sandwiches  
  
The lowlights were:  
— the destruction of his second favourite cardi —a grey and black Ann Demeulemeester he’d received as a Christmas present from Eve that he’d intended to wear with, among other things, the aforementioned trousers— while assisting Burroughs, the R Head, and the Quartermaster, their boss, with an experiment  
— reviewing 37 candidates provided by HR for the replacement of the aforementioned Junior Analyst positions, zero of whom were adequately qualified  
— the Quartermaster’s infuriating, but not unexpected, dismissal of “T’s Little Real Estate Project” during the aforementioned meeting  
— thievery of many of the aforementioned sandwiches by other Q Section staff  
  
At 17:52 Friday, when Sander logged off, Q Section was largely quiet, save the regular late shift S Group staff who always seemed more subdued than the regular day crew.  
  
Improbably, Sander, Anthea and Eve arrived at the duplex simultaneously at 18:55, Eve in her Jeep, Sander by tube, Anthea by car service.  
  
As they stepped onto the stoop, Mrs Bakker opened her door, “all my darlings at once,” she said, hugging each of them as they jostled and traded their bags and parcels in turn to accommodate the greeting.  
  
“I hope you got my message,” Eve said brightly, “I picked you up some Gosh Sagwala, butter naan and raita from Mumbai.” Mrs Bakker accepted the bag, tutting over the kindness and instructed one of them to come around the back once they were settled.  
  
Mrs Bakker had long been a lodger when Sander and Anthea’s mother purchased what the twins, in protest, had first called, That Smelly Old House in Kensal Green. The twins were nine when they moved in, their father recently deceased (from what they now knew was a terrorist attack during which their father had been “collateral damage,” but then had believed —and their mother still believed as she lacked the clearance to know otherwise— from an auto accident). Mrs Bakker had also been widowed young, and as she was almost old enough to be their mother’s mother, she took on the role of surrogate grandmother, with dedication. When Eve started hanging about when the the three of them were in fourth form, it was just The Old House, and Eve too became one of Mrs Bakker’s darlings.  
  
When the twins were just out of uni, Aunt Kate’s trust fund for them released, leaving each a tidy sum. So, when their mother remarried and took off for the countryside, Sander, then freshly at GCHQ, bought his mum out in cash and kept Mrs Bakker on as a free lodger ostensibly so she could water the plants, keep an eye out, and supervise cleaning staff and deliveries when he was away, but realistically because she’d become family.  
  
Sander had gut rehabbed his, the right, side of the duplex down to the bones, largely managing the process remotely from Cherthenham with Anthea’s local assistance. It had been a mirror image of Mrs Bakker’s on the basement, first and second storeys, but solely held the third storey. Now, where on the first storey Mrs Bakker still had (she refused all modernisations) a separate receiving room, dining room, water closet, small study and kitchen, here the area was open, excepting the WC, which was tucked under the stairs.  
   
Once inside, the trio headed toward the large counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the first floor living space, depositing their parcels on the counter-top. While removing her coat, Eve looked to Sander who had produced a thick card of worn A3-sized manilla stock with “ALL THE TECH HERE NOW” hand lettered in thick red marker and was gesticulating with it at a metal basket. Eve snatched Anthea’s phone out of her hand, earning a startled “Wot!” Sander, grinning, traded Eve —Anthea’s phone for a slender electronic wand— and set her about checking all the bags and their persons for monitoring and unauthorised tracking devices. Finding one on Anthea (zip fob of overnight bag), and, annoyingly, two on herself (purse handle and recently dry-cleaned suit jacket collar). She walked over to Sander, who had relocated to the couch, put the finds and the wand on the coffee table.  
  
He gestured again to the note in the basket, and Eve saw that “ALL” was newly circled in black sharpie, with “even earbuds” amended to the side. Eve grabbed the note, and walked it back over to Anthea, who scoffed, “Honestly!” as she went to retrieve a V-Moda headphones clamshell from her overnight bag and a set of earbuds from her purse, walking both over to Sander and dropping both into his lap. Eve’s own earbuds and the key fob for her car were added to the basket.  
  
“Eve, go around the back and see what Mrs Bakker has for us? And, Thea, pull out the food. I’m starving,” he said, leaning back to look at them, upside down, eyebrow arched, “and start tea,” he added absently and non-specifically as he went back to work.  
  
Anthea hovered behind the couch a moment before conceding to his bidding. Three mobile phones (Anthea had a personal Starkphone) and two laptops and a netbook (also Anthea’s) were in a tidy pile at the side of Sander’s coffee table next to the pile of miscellaneous other tech.  
  
Sander had popped off the back of Eve’s mobile and removed the SIM and data cards, inserting both into a multi-slotted device on the coffee table before him. The phone itself went into a lined, lidded metal box to the right of the table, next to his feet on the floor. The multi-slotted device was attached to a laptop of Sander’s, also on the coffee table.  
  
“She made us mini danishes! Three kinds! We’ve desert and breakfast!” Eve exclaimed as she made her way back inside.  
  
They settled around the living room, eating and chatting amiably and vaguely about fashion and food, and even the weather, while Sander continued his vetting of the devices before him, disassembling, testing data cards, coding, putting original devices into the lined, lidded metal box, and once satisfied, disseminating replacement devices to Eve and Anthea, who, when they’d finished eating, had busied themselves with cleaning up.  
  
Just over an hour after they arrived, a number of devices had been distributed, and Sander went back over all non-tech belongings with the detection wand.  
  
Seemingly satisfied, he announced, “Okay then, let’s get through this part quickly. That may have seemed worse than usual, but correcting for interval duration, and presuming that our erstwhile watchers get better as the technology improves, it was not worse than I’d expected. Instead of trying to fully vet now, I’m just giving you replacements for the laptops. These are an upgrade I’d been prepping for each of you anyway, they’re latest standard, fully loaded; all un-compromised data have been mirrored.” Sander continued as he as he tidied up his equipment, “the phones are a downgrade to the previous standard models as you were both recently upgraded. Standard apps were already installed on the replacements. Data on the cards were mirrored; un-compromised, all. No data stored directly on the devices were transferred, including apps. Tomorrow, I’ll clean the ones you came in with and do a re-swap and you’ll get any un-compromised data held directly on those devices back then. The key fob had a Q Section location tracker in it, and I upgraded that. The three clothing trackers were all from Five. The headsets are clean.”  
  
Sander stood, cracking his back, and turning to Anthea, “The netbook is the same model. You will note that several apps didn’t make the transfer; do not re-install those. I’m fairly certain that balloon pop game was a sniffer; change your account passcodes. Actually, both of you change all your account passcodes tomorrow. If you really need reminders, I can force a tight universal passcode update schedule on both of you.” He rose and went to the kitchen gather ingredients for a pitcher of Manhattans from the cupboards.  
  
“Other than Five, who was monitoring us?” Eve asked. “Six, obviously. But, Stark Industries is the only possible interested party I found, other than that sniffer.” Sander replied while pouring out the first round of cocktails.  
  
He turned to Anthea, “I’m keeping the Starkphone for research.” “But, Myc gave me that, he knows how much I like tech, and Pepper Potts sent it to him as a gift after he commented on hers at that London gala for the Stark Emerging Talent Foundation,” Anthea whined over her cocktail.  
  
“A gift that keeps on spying,” Sander countered, more sternly. “In addition to the Starkphone, obvs, your netbook had SI software on it. I’m assuming that’s because you connected it to the Starkphone, which is better than your laptop I suppose. To ensure, that you don’t make that particular error, all ports excepting the charging port and the headphone jack on the laptop you were just provided now force encription. Seriously, Thea, you fucking know better. And, Mycroft should know better. Tony Stark may not be an enemy of the Crown but he’s not our man either, and you well know that I’ve not gotten a chance to play with much Stark tech, so I don’t know whether it’s clean because everything in it, hard and soft, is bloody proprietary.”  
  
“I’m sure the instruction has been received, Sander,” Eve inserted, “besides, you called a Code Rouge Conclave, and according to the rules, Friday night is for airing romantic exploits.”  
  
“Right, yes,” Sander mumbled, as he returned to the living area and sat on the couch. “But, before we get to that, how are you holding up?” Sander said to Eve as she settled on the other end of the couch. Eve glanced around and said, “Well, were certain about the room being clean, yes?” “Yes, I’m certain, did a full check when I got in on Wednesday, even though my monitoring is sound, and nothing has been tampered with,” he replied gently.  
  
Anthea, curled herself into the squishy chair on Eve’s other side and said, “we’ve not gotten to catch up since it happened.”  
  
“Well,” Eve began, “this is the first time a 00 had been shot dead by an other MI6 field agent in the history of the 00 programme.” She took a long drink, and then continued, “there have been nine times a field agent, three of those 00s, were shot by another field agent, but none of the 00s died in those incidents, and two of the field agents who did die were shot by moles in the program during the 1960s.” Anthea got up for the pitcher and refilled their drinks while Sander and she waited for Eve to continue. Eve went on, “and, all of the Bonds have died at enemy hands, all of them, before this one. We’d just met, you know. It was only my third time assisting a senior operative in the field, the first working with a 00. You know, he has, had, such the reputation. I was almost flirting with him before it happened. It all went so fast, and when M commanded I take the shot, and it was a bloody bad shot, it really was, and my marksmanship scores are really high, you know, but I knew it was a bloody bad shot. When M commanded I take the shot, I felt brittle, hollow, and when Bond went down, I felt like I was falling, dead, too.”  
  
“M sent you back out, though,” Anthea prompted. “Well, a sort of out, yes,” Eve hedged. She grabbed a pillow and pulled it against her before continuing. “I passed physical,and psych. I did much worse than usual for marksmanship, but, still high enough to pass. So, I did get assigned, but, only on stakeouts and info drops, in Rome and Vienna, as you know,” she directed at Sander. Turning to Anthea, she continued, “But, they’re petty, training-level assignments. I’m in a room alone with long-distance microphones, gathering intel. Or I’m placing or retrieving at a dead drop. Or doing a quick hand-off. No where I’d need to be in the thick of it, I’ll tell you that. It certainly feels like a bump down.”  
  
Eve paused to rearrange herself and take another sip, “But, enough that now. According to Conclave Rules, Sunday breakfast is the time for career discussions. You can ask your follow-up questions then. You’re up, Sander, I’m eager to learn of your romantic escapades. I’m still on a dry spell, and you did call the conclave,” Eve said, as she put down her glass and went to the kitchen to arrange a plate of the mini danishes.  
  
“Yes, well, my dry spell has ended, but, I can’t go first,” Sander paused to take a sip of his cocktail, “I’m far too sober to start.”  
  
“I’ll start then,” Anthea piped in. As she topped off their drinks, she too walked back to the kitchen, to prepare another pitcher, “Dr Joel Jeffries has skills.”  
  
Sander nearly spit out his drink laughing as Eve sputtered, “You did not fuck MI6’s Medical Section Head,” returning to her seat, pastries in hand.  
  
Anthea smiled, and then went on as she brought out the pitcher, “I picked him up for a meeting with Myc, yeah?” Anthea continued describing her first encounter with her latest conquest —and their subsequent three dates— as the trio made their way through the plate of pastries and the second pitcher, finishing with, “and in addition to being spectacularly skilled, Joel is terribly sweet, and charming.”  
  
“And bald and old and married,” Sander interrupted with a smirk. “Bugger off, he’s separated, and he’s intentionally bald and I like that, and he’s not that old,” Anthea scoffed. “Agreed, he’s not that old. And, it’s the skill that matters, but what would I know, I’ve not shagged anyone since I joined Six, I’d love a good skilled fuck,” Eve lamented.  
  
“Well, my dry spell ended with a man who is neither old nor bald, and who is charming and handsome and skilled. Let’s go smoke,” Sander piped in, blushing, with pursed lips. “And, here we go,” Eve cheered. They hastily prepared a third pitcher and relocated to the back garden, settling in around the garden table, covering the seats with beach towels that had been hung by the door for the purpose. Eve prodded, “Right then, so, what is Prince Charming’s name, love? We are by now dying for details.”  
  
“Steve. Steven Grant,” Sander offered, lighting his and Eve’s cigarettes. “Oh, you’re going to make us dig again, okay. How did you meet?” Anthea queried.  
  
“You remember the runner I mentioned from Stockholm last month?” Sander asked. “The Spectacularly Fit One?” Eve queried over Anthea’s blurted, “with the world-class bottom?”  
  
“Indeed,” was Sander’s reply. “You know I’ve been running most mornings,” he continued, “and you do recall my being confounded by the spectacularly fit man who lapped me three times during a run in Stockholm. Well, in Copenhagen, I was running on Monday morning, and he passed me, and I thought I’d recognised him because there’s no mistaking that arse, he is remarkably fit. Anyway, he passed me again on the same run, this time, saying, ’on your left’ as he passed.” Sander paused to take a drag off his cigarette. He continued, “It happened again the next day, but then, on the second pass, he turned around, running backwards, and said ’hi,’ with this spectacular grin, and I shit you not, he is so blindingly beautiful that I bloody well tripped.”  
  
Anthea and Eve were snickering and cackling, and Eve, through her laughter prodded, “don’t stop now!” just as Anthea added, “Blindingly beautiful, yeah? Well, pics or we’ll not believe you!”  
  
Sander, poked at his phone until he found a two pictures, “Well, yes, here he is, from later though,” as he showed each of them, earning an, “oh my” from Eve and a “bloody hell” from Anthea. “Well, then, my Prince Charming picked me up off the ground, and he apologised profusely, lovely voice for an American,” Sander paused for a sip, eyes downcast. “A yank!” Eve crowed.  
  
Sander steadied himself and then continued, “Yes, the lovely American apologised —for startling me he said — and he asked if he could make it up to me by taking me to breakfast. As I had to go into the office so I asked if we could make it lunch instead. The equipment load in was scheduled for Tuesday, so I could. Anyway, we met at the restaurant. And we talked, about why we were both in Copenhagen, and for how long – he’d planned another week, with day-trips in the region – and he confirmed that he’d seen me too in Stockholm. I’d a feeling Steve was hedging as much as I, as he claimed to be on an extended European holiday, sketching.”  
  
“Sounds sketchy,” Anthea offered, which earned her a glare. “And did Prince Charming ask you to come up to see his sketches,” Eve said slowly and with emphasis. “He did. He actually did,” Sander laughed. And then, more sheepishly, “But that was later. Not then. Then, I had to go back to work, and he walked me there, but we didn’t make any further plans, he said he’d see me on the path. But, the load in started early and so I didn’t run, and I was locked down with the installation through Wednesday.”    
  
Sander, refilled their glasses, before continuing, “On Thursday morning, I skipped my run again, but, I was walking along the same path, distracted, and I’d stupidly had my bag on one shoulder, and it got snatched by some twat on rollerblades. Steve came out of nowhere on foot, and caught up with the twat, yanked the bag from him and jogged it back to me. So, I took the risk and asked him if I could take him to dinner as a thank you. He was headed out on an overnight to Malmo for some reason, and we settled on Friday, which was good since I was in the thick of the installation anyway.”  
  
“Where’d you pick for dinner?” Eve asked. “Oliver and The Black Circus! And it’s marvellous, do go,” Sander replied. Eve frowned, “but how did you get in on such short notice?” “Oh, that’s the thing,” Sander went on, “I’d already had reservations for two, and I’d’ve invited Matthews to join me me or gone alone anyway.” Eve’s downcast look momentarily confounded Sander before she clarified, “Matthews shot 004, who didn’t die, and he is alone in Copenhagen, manning an outpost, and I have no future.”  
   
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Anthea interrupted, rising to then kneel in front of Eve, prying the cigarette and glass from Eve’s hands, and taking both into her own. She continued with focus, more gravely and kindly than she’d been all evening, “Eve, love, you’re going to be fine. You can be sad, yes, but, you do not need to be maudlin about your future prospects particularly, especially this liquored up. I promise you, you will not be hung out to dry on this, Eve, you were commanded to take the shot, that is known, and known all the way up. You will be fine..” Rising, she continued, “we’ll be maudlin tomorrow when I’ve got you in a Boscia black mask drinking the first bloody mimosa,” then, to Sander, “Do continue, Eve needs the distraction.”  
  
Ah, right then,” Sander went on, stiltedly at first, ““Dinner was lovely, We talked about art, the changes in European architecture since WWII. He’s sweet, dry sense of humour.”  
  
“Oh my god get to the sex,” Anthea drawled in interruption, with a frown at her now empty glass. Straightening, Sander continued, as he emptied the pitcher into their glasses, “yes, during desert, he asked me if I’d like to see his sketches, and so, we taxied to his hotel. And, when we got up to his room, he actually showed me the sketches, and they’re fabulous really, he’s talented and apparently he actually had been travelling since he had sketches from all...”  
  
“Sander!” Eve interrupted, shaking his shoulder lightly.  
  
“Yes, well, we were sitting on a small settee in his room,” Sander continued, “and he was all earnest and sweet, and as he seemed disinclined to escalate, I climbed into his lap and kissed him. He, ah, he caught up quickly.”  
  
“Are we getting any details brother mine?” Anthea posed.  
  
“All you shall get on the matter is that I’ve not been handled so well since gap year, and that Steve was twice as fantastic,” Sander offered, with a slight frown. “Gap year? You mean Hamish, that footie player?” Eve queried. “Yes,” Sander lamented, lighting another cigarette, “easily twice as amazing in the sack as Hamish, and, um, flexible too, and pretty, and charming. But, it seems, Steve’s just like Hamish, and Blake, and Tom, in the worst of ways, sadly.”  
  
“Oh, Sander,” Eve said, “not again.”  
  
“Ah, well,” Q replied, “that’s the heartbreak of it. When we parted Sunday...” “Sunday?” Eve demanded. “I know,” Sander continued, “when we parted, he said that he’d see me running on Monday. That’s when I shot off the email calling the CCR, the install was going well enough and I’d already planned my return. Anyway, he wasn’t on the path Monday, but, as I passed the cafe, he was there, bags packed at his feet, with an teary-eyed brunette sat next to him, holding his hand. As he seemed only to have eyes for her, I made it past and to the office without notice. I didn’t see him again.”  
  
“Time for another damn pitcher,” Anthea offered. “Agreed,” was Sander’s reply.  
  



	3. Missed Connections

Steve pried the laptop out of Darcy’s hand and gently re-arranged her in her sleep, covering her with both their blankets.  
  
The quickest way back to DC was direct from Copenhagen to Dulles on SAS – both SI jets were eight hours away at least, and being no doubt put to better use for SI than consistently carting Steve to and fro on his “modern walkabout” as Tony called it; and the best option on the flight was business class – something Steve felt a little guilty about being annoyed with, but felt all the same.  
  
Darcy had tracked him down to tell him the news about Peggy’s deteriorating condition in person, flying coach to Copenhagen from NY overnight via Stockholm to get to him, and he didn’t think she’d slept much, long ago admitting discomfort with sleeping on commercial flights when she was alone. Now, just an hour into their eight-plus hour flight, she was out cold, and even as bored as he was, he wouldn’t wake her. He let his mind wander as he sketched.  
  
In the two-and-a-half years since Tony’s team found Steve under the ice, Darcy had been Steve’s most consistent companion.  
  
When Steve was found near the Valkyrie by Tony’s team in April of 2010, he was not recognizable as Captain America, save the rotted uniform. He was gaunt, his hair had grown well below his shoulders and was home to barnacles and cold-water shrimp, and his finger and toe-nails had grown several feet. When he was brought to the tower, he seemed a corpse, but Tony didn’t take any chances.  And when the medical team noticed a faint heartbeat with a minutes-long rhythm, Steve had been gradually warmed, and thoroughly groomed – shaved from head-to-toe and exfoliated – so that wounds caused by sea creatures could be optimally attended, as his self-healing had slowed as much as his heart rate.  
  
Once awake, his physical recovery was quick: every ounce he gained was in muscle, and his strength and speed rebounded with every meal. His mental and emotional recovery proved more complicated: he had dreams and nightmares throughout the entirety of his frozen decades, and so, being awake seemed terrifically and disconcertingly unreal.  
  
Darcy was the first person – other than Tony, Pepper and and the medical staff – that Steve met upon awakening, and was initially introduced by Tony as Steve’s Modernity Trainer, although Steve later learned that Darcy was the SI Historian and Archivist. And, to Steve, Darcy felt more real than anything else in the modern world. He felt that even while dreaming, he couldn’t have fashioned her from whole cloth. Modernity Trainer, indeed.  
  
Darcy had dual-majored in Political Science and History, and was hired by Pepper herself – less than a year prior to Steve’s retrieval – after Pepper had read one of Darcy’s papers on the current political impact of curated historical information while vetting Darcy’s application for the Archivist position. Howard Stark apparently was a pack rat and a collector, and he never threw anything of seeming significance away, but, he had staffers of varying competence store it all for a “later” that never happened for him. Other than finding Steve, a life-long side quest of Howard’s (he’d always believed that Steve might be alive, and it vexed him) that Tony resumed on his own, a few years after Howard’s death (albeit superstitiously, and perhaps begrudgingly and with less faith of Steve’s continued viability than his father), Tony was present-and-future focused. Several of the loans to the Smithsonian’s Captain America and Howling Commandos Exhibit were from the Stark archives, some of them arranged by Darcy herself. Tony, was of course, interested in any technology and technological plans that had been squirreled away, and so Darcy regularly presented him with finds.  
  
Now, Steve was closer to Darcy than he’d been to anyone in his life, save his mom and Bucky. When he was in NY, she spent roughly a half of her work time, and a good portion of her free time, with him. She too lived at Stark Tower, each of them in opposing corner apartments – hers NW, his SE – on what had been evolving into the Library and Archive floor even prior to his arrival. He saw Tony some, a few times a week at least, and Pepper occasionally, but Darcy was a constant.  
  
At first he balked to Tony at the living arrangements and Darcy’s assistance, wanting to find a job and pay his way, but Tony put him off-kilter with The Portfolio.  
  
“Oh, you’re paying her, a part of her salary I mean. And, you paid for the build out-on the apartment, yours, not hers. And, actually, you paid for Howard’s search, eventually, when I backed out the principal, later. And the recent search, that too. You’re still rich, not me rich, but, rich,” Tony had said, as he pulled up a series of files on Steve’s laptop.  
  
Howard’s faith that Steve might not have perished was attached to pay: pay for every year that Steve had been under the ice, increasing at the rate of a soldier at his rank, plus the return on investments that Howard, and, eventually Steve and Pepper, made with the money.  If they hadn’t done anything with the money, Steve would have had over a million dollars. But, tied as it was to SI investments, the return was immense. Even though Tony, in a fit of pique after finding the accounts after is father’s death, had backed out the Steve’s principal sans-interest salary, and the $25 million Howard had spent on Steve’s search, and had charged over $65 million that Tony had spent on Steve’s search, since 1995 when he resumed it.  
  
The total sum of his holdings were presently estimated at $776 million, a staggering sum to Steve who never expected to have a fraction of that.  
  
After considering the baggage attached to his name and image, and knowing that it would seem preposterous and afford him no autonomy if he went public, he chose the name Steven Grant, and Tony and Pepper somehow arranged a backstory for him, and what would read as a legal identity, including a 4-year stint in the Army that would bear moderate scrutiny between highschool and  college, a full academic history through a degree in History from Culver (where Darcy attended) and a current “job” with Darcy as an Archivist.  
  
The team who found the Valkrye ihad believed they were handling a corpse, and Tony did nothing to disabuse them of the notion. When one of them inevitably broke the non-disclosure agreement anyway, they had a cover for that too: a private cremation.  
  
Darcy herself had been a godsend. She took her duties as his Modernity Trainer seriously, and set him to work helping her with the Archives, going through the history of every section of artifacts and files, and the time surrounding it, skipping around a lot, but bringing him up to speed nevertheless. Every new box or item brought an excuse to discuss the national and global socio-political climate of its time, and with JARVIS’s assistance, to watch movies, listen to music, read books and eat foods that would have then been popular. Their activities fleshed out the decades into what was increasingly for Steve a coherent whole.  
  
Darcy exuberantly, but kindly, broke through his “generational stoicism” to get him to work on his depression, that he’d only recently been able to admit had affected him when he first came out of the ice. She had patiently cajoled him into a Modern wardrobe – backed up by a frighteningly confident shopper, shepherded him through Modern grooming – he kinda liked the occasional beard to be honest, trained him in Modern technology and vernacular – he loved the Internet and having JARVIS to consult. Early on, she got him going to Spring Studio for life drawing sessions twice a week so he’d regularly talk to people who weren’t employed by SI. She agreed to training in boxing, on the condition that he also do yoga with her.  And after his breakup, she pushed him into his “modern walkabout” encouraging him to visit all the places he’d been – both on the USO tour and with the Howling Commandos – so that he could find closure and update his mental map and sketchbooks. She’d joined him about a third of the time when he was still in the states, and then even met up with him in Europe a few times before this retrieval.  
  
Through it all they became the closest of friends. And, it was Darcy who informed Steve, about a year out of the ice that he was, in fact, gay.  
  
They’d been at The Mulberry Project on the edge of Little Italy where they’d met after he’d had a drawing session at Spring Studio and she’d been on a shopping spree, both on the wall side of the back booth, looking at the whole of the small bar, when Darcy, on her fourth incomprehensible cocktail, blurted, “Oh my god, I just realized you don’t know. You don’t know! It makes so much sense now.” Steve, on his eighth cocktail himself (his, “can you bring me two of whatever cocktail she orders, whenever she orders, please?” amused the server) which had affected him about as much as one cocktail for her, and she wasn’t a lightweight, responded, “Darce, that’s what I pay you for, to tell me everything I don’t know.”  
  
She put down her drink, knelt on the seat, and directly into his ear whispered, “You, Steven Grant Rogers are gay,” punctuating her statement by shaking his shoulder with both hands. She sat back down, saying, “we are so talking about this later,” with a definitive nod, then, smiling brightly, she ordered another cocktail and all the desserts.  
  
Steve had let it go, thinking Darcy was overly tipsy and wouldn’t bring it up again, but, she did, the next day. “Have you thought about it?” she asked, as he made them pancakes. “Thought about what?” he hedged. She hopped onto the counter-top, relaxing with a sigh, and then started, “Okay, so, let me just talk for a minute okay? We’ve known one another a bit, yes? And, you’re not the only guy I’ve ever been around, and I’m not particularly unobservant. Wait, okay, let me back up. Answer one question: have you asked anyone out on a date since you got defrosted?”  
  
Steve didn’t initially respond, but put a short stack of pancakes on the bar across from where she was sitting, and gestured to it prompting her to relocate. He hauled around a barstool so he could sit across from her, and long seconds later situating himself behind a huge stack of pancakes said, “I haven’t met anyone I was interested in asking.”  
  
“Uh huh. No one? Not when you’re running a marathon each morning? Not when you’re at drawing classes? Okay,” she said, between bites. She took a long drink of coffee and she changed the subject, “You saw Peggy, right?” The disconnect startled him, “Of course, yes, why?” “Well, Peggy says you never closed the deal, and she would’ve been up for it, modern gal that she was for the time.”  
  
“When did you talk to Peggy about that?” Steve replied, with a clenched jaw. “Before you were defrosted,” she replied, ignoring his discontent, “when I first got brought on, I started meeting with her about stuff I found in the archives. We talked a lot early on, and we still do, occasionally, but you know she’s not always as lucid, and we don’t talk about you much any more, except in the vaguest sense since you are, well, here. You didn’t have a privacy to protect when you weren’t here. Whatever, I don’t want to get derailed on that part, just. Okay, Steve, you do notice the ladies, you like some high heels, mister, but, I don’t think that you’re particularly attracted to women, except in a purely aesthetic sense.”  
  
Between bites, she continued, “when I first met you, you were occasionally blushy and shy, but I noticed that you were like that when you get compliments, I thought at first it was from women, but, I later realized that it was men too, just that they don’t compliment as much. But, I’ve noticed that, um, if you ever get blushy and shy when you’re not actually talking to someone, it’s because you’ve noticed a guy.”  
  
She finished the rest of her pancakes and then said, “That’s all I want to say now. The next time we talk about this, you’re bringing it up. Know this, though, I’ve been around a lot of guys, straight and gay and bi actually, and you’re not going to shock me. And I think that, regardless of your upbringing, you know that the world now is different about these things. I don’t want you agreeing with me, and maybe I'm wrong but, I just want you to, um, notice what you’re noticing? To pay attention to how you feel? And I’m not going to love you less or more regardless. And, I have tips, regardless. But, now, I gotta go. Pepper’s found a new cache of stuff I need to get moved.”  
  
Standing with her as she made to leave, Steve replied, “I love you too.” And he knew then, that he meant like a sister, but it was all too much to parse.  
  
He wanted to put the conversation out of his mind, but, it was there, in the background, taking up thinking capacity whenever he wasn’t fully engaged in something else, which was rare. At her word, Darcy dropped it entirely; the day after they went on as if the conversation never happened, to Steve’s relief. As the weeks passed, though, Steve, at Darcy’s suggestion and his own powerlessness to stop its effects, noticed. He noticed what and when he was noticing instead of merely noticing. He noticed his heart rate pick up when he found someone attractive. And he noticed that, inevitably, those someones were men.  
  
In the end, he brought it up to Peggy before talking to Darcy again. He’d gone to visit Peggy, taking the Harley early in the morning, on a Thursday in the middle of May, 2011. He hadn’t meant it to come out, but it did, when after checking in about her general health and well being, Peggy said, “What about you, how are you?” He responded with, “I think I might be gay.” And she laughed, gleefully and without guile, saying, “You’d have made me a fine husband anyway if it took you this long to figure it out. We would have probably made it through the early seventies without a hitch.” “You knew?” Steve queried. “I suspected, but, it wasn’t the done thing then was it? I mean, your eyes glazed over a little bit whenever you saw Percy Poindexter, I don’t think you’d noticed it as much as I, or ever considered it, did you?” was her response. “Darcy told you?” he asked. “Yes, she called me right after your chat, frightened that she’d ruined your friendship. I told her to hold to her word and let you puzzle it out on your own and that it would all work out.”  
  
Never one to balk at a challenge, instead of talking to Darcy after that, Steve decided to go to a bar on his own for the first time since 1941, and like 1941 he picked Brooklyn. He asked JARVIS through his StarkPhone for a suggestion of a dive bar in Brooklyn that was gay friendly and had a pool table, having learned to trust the AI’s knowledge and discretion. And so, a little after 8pm, about 4 hours after making the decision, Steve ended up at Metropolitan in Williamsburg, which was outside his old stomping grounds, but in Brooklyn nevertheless.  
  
The crowd was lively, and he stuck to the bar for a bit, watching. Nothing was particularly shocking, as Darcy’s historical movie and TV lessons had been sufficiently diverse. Eventually Steve took his second beer to the area around the pool table, leaning against the wall. As soon as he got settled, a beautiful, pale, grey-eyed brunet walked up to him and said, “Hi, oh god I hope you’re friendly, can you pretend you’re my boyfriend for a minute? I’m Kurt,” and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth. And Steve, although shocked, knew definitively at that moment that Darcy and Peggy were right.  
  
The audience for Kurt’s ruse appeared not a minute later, with a, “Who the fuck is this?” to which Steve replied, protectively wrapping his arm around Kurt, said, “Steve Grant, who’s asking?” Through the target’s stammering, Kurt, obviously shaken, whispered into Steve’s ear, “Can you walk me out of here? I don’t know how I’ll make it up to you, but I’ll make it up to you.” Steve, drawing a persona from imitating Bucky with one of his dames, kissed Kurt who was only a few inches shorter, on the forehead and said, “Let’s get out of here.” and they walked out unimpeded.  
  
Once they were on the street, Steve realized he was genuinely concerned, and so, he asked, “What’s next? Is he going to follow you? Are you safe? Do you need me to take you somewhere?” Kurt’s bark of a laugh was followed with, “You are the best thing ever. I’m hungry. Can I buy you a thank-you pizza? The Bushwick Danny’s is less than a mile from here and it’s close to my place, so you can walk me home-ish.” “Pizza sounds great, but I haven’t eaten since breakfast so I’ll only go if I’m buying. Is there parking over there?” Steve asked. When Kurt’s eye’s narrowed a bit, Steve continued, pointing, “I mean I don’t mind walking, but I’ve got my bike.” Kurt’s expression opened as he followed Steve’s gesture, and he said, “Yeah, we can do that.”  
  
After they placed an order for a large white with meatballs, two extra sides of meatballs and Cokes, Steve asked, “Is that guy an ex-boyfriend?” “Uh, no,” Kurt replied, “he’s a never boyfriend. We went out one time, but he creeped me out, and he, um, reacted poorly when I wouldn’t have sex with him.” “On a first date?” Steve blurted, just as their drinks arrived, gaining him a soft smile from Kurt who ignored the question, continuing, “Yes, well, I blocked his number so he can’t call me, and he can’t get into where I work, so I don’t generally have to put up with him. He doesn’t usually go to that bar, so I was surprised. And, I really appreciate you playing along.”  
  
“It, uh, wasn’t a problem,” Steve replied, cursing himself for suddenly getting flustered. “So, are you new to the area?” Kurt asked. This, though wasn’t that solid of an answer for Steve, as he wasn’t as practiced at covering as he thought he needed to be, “I used to live around here, but, I went away, first to the Army and then to college, and I’ve only been back to NY for a year. I live in Midtown now, but, I haven’t made it to Brooklyn much. What about you? Oh, sorry, excuse me, I have a...” Steve pulled out his StarkPhone, which had started to pulse out a message from Darcy in Morse Code, which only happened if he failed to react to three unanswered messages with a three-hour gap from the first. “Is that your boyfriend?” Kurt posed, continuing, “And is that a StarkPhone?” “No, and yes,” Steve replied. Kurt waited, until Steve finished sending his “I’m good. Out. Talk later.” text, slipping the phone back into his pocket just as the food arrived.  
  
After, they started to dig into the food, Steve asked about where Kurt was from, and Kurt gave a brief from-Ohio, finished-NYADA, bartending-and-fashion-interning-and-auditioning-now rundown. After a a lull, during which Kurt pensively picked at his pizza, Kurt said, “So, Steve, you seem kinda down-to-earth considering you’re wearing a Bottega Veneta t-shirt, Denham jeans, Ferragamo boots, and carrying a StarkPhone.” “Thanks, I think. I work at Stark Industries, so, the phone comes with that, I think. I don’t really pay attention to brands, and um aren’t most jeans denim?” was Steve’s reply as he started in on his fourth piece of pizza, topped with extra meatballs. “Not denim the material, Denham, D E N H A M, the brand. How do you end up with those clothes if you don’t pay attention to the brands?” Kurt asked with a frown. “Oh, the jeans are comfortable, and so is the t-shirt, and I have a shopper. At Barneys? Tomas. He picks out a lot of my clothes,” Steve replied, belatedly considering whether that answer might not be normal.  
  
“Tomas? Not Tomas Allen Jordon?” Kurt asked. “Yeah, yes, I think so, you know him?” Steve replied as he prepared to polish off the meatballs. “Steve, Tomas isn’t a shopper, Tomas is a buyer, The Buyer, he doesn’t shop!” was Kurt’s exasperated response. Steve continued to eat, equally amused and bemused at Kurt’s continued ranting about fashion and buying collections vs shopping for items.  
  
Amusement won out, and Steve asked, “Kurt, would you let me take you out on a date?” just as the server dropped off the check. To which Kurt replied with a grin, as he snatched the check off the table, “Steve, I’m pretty sure we’re already on a date, but yes, you can take me out on another one.”  
  
After Steve walked Kurt home, phone numbers exchanged en-route and a brief Kurt-initiated kiss at the doorstep, Steve ran back to the bike and sped back to the tower. Although it was after 11pm, he was prodding JARVIS to see whether Darcy was asleep yet as soon as he was on the elevator. As JARVIS had assured him that Darcy was indeed awake, Steve knocked on her door. She opened it, dressed in fuzzy pajamas with her hair in a messy top ponytail, book in hand. And so, almost three months after Darcy started the conversation, Steve resumed it by picking her up in a spinning hug as he excitedly said, “I’m pretty sure you were right, I went on a date with a guy, and I have another one.” His conversation with Peggy went similarly, although he didn’t pick her up and twirl her around.  
  
In the end, Kurt and Steve only dated for thirteen weeks before Kurt broke it off to try again with his ex, Sebastian. During that time, though, Steve learned enough about his preferences and predilections – although Kurt’s initial disbelief about Steve’s lack of amorous experience was a well-met challenge – to be considerably more confident about the dating thing, and the sex thing, and the shopping thing, for that matter. And they parted as friends.  
  
Although Steve went on a few dates after, none of them proved interesting until he met Sander. And now, he thought –  while he finished a sketch of Sander as he’d been at dinner at Oliver and the Black Circus, animated and lovely –  as they’d somehow neglected to exchange contact information, he’d probably never see Sander again.  
  
When the plane was preparing for descent, Steve woke Darcy gently, so he could raise her seat back. After a rushed stumble to the lavatory, she pulled out a Stark satellite phone that piggybacked on the Iridium network, and she covertly used it to text Tony. Happy was to meet them at baggage claim, as Tony was already at Peggy’s bedside.  
  
When Darcy and Steve arrived, by unspoken agreement, Tony and Darcy left Steve alone with Peggy, and went out to a nearby waiting area. “I own this place,” Tony said, “well, SI owns it, and it should have better couches, somebody should have made sure there were better couches. Pepper’s on her way, had a board meeting, should be landing soon. They have a helipad, my doing. But I noticed the need for a helipad, I never noticed the couches.” Darcy just nodded.


End file.
